The Wallace Vignettes
by Domlando Blonaghan
Summary: The fic 'formerly known as' Falkirk Spearhead. This is the next vignette, summary inside. Feedback appreciated. PG for some violence, just to be safe.
1. Falkirk

A/N: This is a one shot. I have just watched Braveheart for the first time, although I have read both The Wallace and The Bruce Trilogy by Nigel Tranter. Seeing Braveheart's story brought to life sort of inspired this, although I think that it's been waiting to be written for a while. The events in this hold true to history, which Braveheart doesn't, though, so if they're different from the movie (and they are) then you'll know why. It brings some satisfaction to people who love Robert Bruce. I hope you enjoy.  
  
~*~  
  
Drums roll. In the distance, I can just make out the gathering thousands beyond the mist. The hoofbeats of hundreds of horses shake the grassy moor beneath our feet. Beasts dressed for war- their plates of steel glistening in the watery, failing sunshine of the early morning. The air is heavy with their breathing, and ours. Trumpets now. The call of a commander, and the shuffling of disciplined feet. They maneuver into formations, too afraid to disobey, present only because of orders and out of a wish to quell Plantagenet's fierce temper. We have made his last year full of wrath and uneasiness; his attempts to fight a war in France disturbed because he looks back over his shoulder to the North. The disobedient Scots are putting up a damned good fight for being filthy savages!  
  
But we, the simple folk, do not come because of politics. We do not come for glory- what need has a farmer working his laird's lands for glory? We do not come for riches, for indeed we will be poorer ere this war is over. We come because of true fealty. Because the man we are loyal to knows full well the meaning of servitude, and is as loyal to us as he demands from his followers. We come because we want our sons to be free men, and our daughters to live in peace, not in fear of rape and slaughter from an English officer.  
  
I can hear the trumpets louder now; a breeze gently urges the mist aside, leaving a gray sky. The deep green of the moor stretches beyond us, dotted with purple heather, droplets of blood from the angels above. The breeze stirs my plaid, lifting my hair. It is a sharp Highland breeze, that cools the blood and clears the mind.  
  
In truth we have no choice but to be here; no man with a sense of honour would turn his tail and run. We are the fierce Highland charge; our cries run chills through our enemies. We defeated this same foe at Stirling, we may yet defeat them here.  
  
A clear Highland song rises up from behind us. In the dim sky the Highland mountains loom from many miles away. They implore us to win; to win back the country that Plantagenet stole. We are the hope of the mountains, the lochs, the people. We are the hope of Wallace, though not many may realize. Because he is our hope.  
  
Guardian of the Realm, he is one of our own. We stand here beside him at Falkirk, not truly in defiance of the English- though we hate them with a coursing rage through our bones- but to honour our pledge. For some that pledge was unspoken, but it exists just the same. There is a difference between the thrones in England and Scotland, and that difference is what calls the common people to follow him. The King of England is just that, King of the land, and everyone who happens to be within those borders. But the King of the Realm of Scotland is called the King of Scots. The King of the people, and it is for the people whom Wallace fights, God bless him.  
  
The jeers begin now. Screaming erupts from both ends of the moor, a mixture of Gaelic and English. Wallace, at the fore of it all, unmounted but still towering over everyone, raises a mighty hand. Everything is now silent on our side of the moor. All around me, men shift. Out of fear, anger or urgency, none can say. The clink of steel hitting steel is common, men bang their weapons together. I however, have onlyu one weapon, like so many other Highlanders. Compared to an English knight, I am almost naked. Beneath my plaid, there is a leather jerkin. Beneath my kilt, nothing. My head is bare save the caress of the morning breeze. I carry only a spear, used for my schiltrom. I am a farmer, I carry no sword, wear no mail. I am resigned that I will probably die, here on this deep, mossy moor. If the tight-packed organization of the schiltrom breaks down, I will certainly die, with nothing but my dirk to protect me from the onslaught of heavy cavalry. A spear has no use in close contact fighting.  
  
Wallace is staring at the army. Behind those keen eyes, his mind is working, I can tell. There have been rumours that he feels unworthy to call himself Guardian, and believes he has made a mistake in fighting a real battle. But heros rarely think they are worth renown, and the weaklings are the ones who believe themselves to be above the status of God. The odds are forever against us. Men are looking to him now, as I do. My eldest son stands beside me, hero-worshipping the large, broad man standing stoic as a Highland mountain himself.  
  
They charge, cavalry and light horse coming together in a whirlwind of bay, chestnut and gray. Armour flashing, they are silent, utter no cries. They are a perfect, disciplined machine. But we are ready, formed into tight- knit groups with spears pointing at all levels, designed to take down the poor beasts galloping towards us. The knights who are felled, we slaughter. Then comes the next wave.  
  
But it is none so easy, nor so organized. What is seen is a mêlée of bodies, hooves flashing and legs flailing, men shrieking as they fall to their deaths. Already I see a schiltrom has fallen apart. What is left after agonizing minutes are isolated schiltroms, surrounded by footmen now. Scots whose schiltroms have failed either try to hold their own with their dirks or English swords lying unused and bloodied, or join another schiltrom. Nothing seems to work. Hope is failing fast. Where is the Bruce?  
  
Now the Comyns begin to flee. Their banner is caught up in the breeze. Do they feel no shame, abandoning their leader? Their horsemen gallop into and beyond the forest. Everyone looks to Wallace. He is in the middle of a hard- pressed group of his most loyal and close friends. They die around him, he is flecked with their blood. Yet he fights on, as all must do. My son falls to the ground. Oh, where is the Bruce? Wallace has no hope of getting out alive. The English horse mill around, over the piles of my kinsmen and theirs, and they pick off the straggling Scots warriors. We fight for our lives, the cause dying just as surely as Wallace will. At least we will have fought.  
  
An axe swings towards me, whistling with its speed, the wielder cursing at me. I duck, a lock of my auburn hair falls to the ground, what should have been my head. My wife brushed my hair, long and straight, the morning I left to join Wallace's army. She plaited it, tying it back with a leather thong. It flows free now, piece of leather long forgotten on the moor that slowly turns to red. The axe lets loose again. This time, it connects, deep into my chest. I fall beside my son. My vision is fading, slowly fading. Saying a prayer through lips struggling to draw breath, I hear a trumpet. English re-enforcements, probably. I pray to die quickly, grasping my son's bloodied hand in mine, also soaked in blood. Soon it will all be over. Many men around us are falling, too loyal to the man who has moved mountains to flee and leave him stranded and alone.  
  
A familiar sound rings in my ears, causing me to lift my head in disbelief. I wedge formation, spear-headed by the Bruce banner streams towards the pocket where Wallace stands. The air is filled with cries of "A Bruce, A Bruce!", the Lord Robert of Carrick's slogan. Smiling, I lay my head down. My life has not been in vain, I realize, feeling the skin of my flesh and blood clasped with mine. Slowly, my world fades, vision grows dark, and long after the sky has faded to nothingness, I still hear the Highland song, fainter and fainter, and the mountains seem to sing with glory.  
  
A/N: Well, what did you think? Review if you wish, and if I get some positive feedback, I may write a series of vignettes about Wallace from different points of view. Thanks for reading. 


	2. The Maid at the Manor

Vignette Two

A/N: This is my second vignette, I'm not as happy with this one as I was with the first, but whatever. I don't like the beginning. But here it is. I was really happy with the 3 reviews I got for the last one, because I know that not many people read Braveheart fiction.

This vignette is from the point of view of an old maid living in the manor where Wallace's wife stayed before she got arrested and killed for 'aiding and abetting him'. This is the historical version, again, not the movie version. She was a noble lady, and she lived in her father's house because Wallace was an outlaw. Read, and hopefully, enjoy. And review please!

~*~

My mistress sheds better tears; she is set upon by the plague of worry. There is no joy, no laughter in the house of my employers. We tread on silent feet, carefully past the door of the chamber, hardly daring to speak. As though mere words could comfort her strained soul! 

            The Lady Wallace, jovial and delightful to behold, has become almost a widow, and yet knows not the resignation of a widow. She will never find solace, doomed to forever watch and wait for a husband she cannot contain. His will is as strong as his arm, which no man may break.

            And yet he always returns. The fears and horrible fates dreamed up in my mistress' bitter sorrow fritter away and she loves him once more, full of joy to carry his child, no longer afraid that he may never his heir, and that they will never know their father.

            There are footsteps on the drive. The manservant fetches the door, and its wide, oaken might opens to reveal the still more mighty Wallace, the master of my lady, most likely fresh from the chase and slaughter that has become his daily ritual. He is unkempt, dirty and mal-nourished. Upstairs, a door slams, and there are hurried footsteps coming down the stone staircase. My lady changed rooms once her husband left, so that her window now faces the front of the house, and always she watches. Her face newly washed to hide the tears, she fairly leaps down the steps of the stairs. The yellow firelight illuminates the glow in both pairs of cheeks. Eyes sparkling, she reaches up on tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck, fingers entwining in his amber hair, caressing the weeks-old beard. He stands to his full height, lifting her and his child as easily as he would a kitten. He is smiling, but there is a shadow on his face that firelight cannot conceal. My young lady is oblivious; love masking all flaws on and within him, but it is plain to me. This passionate, formerly carefree man had seen something to change his heart, trouble his mind and conscience.

             I disappear into the kitchen. The pair will want to be alone tonight, and for as long as they can. God knows Wallace won't linger. He never prolongs his visits, but they are always remembered.

            In the dim kitchen lit only by the cooking fire, I reheat my lady's evening meal, which she did not touch. Placing more food on the trenchers, I offer to the scullion maid to take them to the lady myself. Master Wallace looked hungry when he entered; necessity would have to overcome ceremony for the evening. They will eat in the bedchamber. Considering Wallace's age and temperament, food will not be the only thing he is hungry for tonight.

            Coming close to the chamber, I hear voices through the door. Preparing myself for the worst, I knock and enter, faced away from the side of the room where my lady's bed stands. As I open the door, the voices stop abruptly. It is always so when I or any other servant enters, but it does not stop us from knowing what is going on in our household.

            "My lady, some food for you and Master Wallace as well," I say, placing the trenchers and a jug of wine on the small, crudely made table. The room is softly lit, the fire bright and some candles burning; one on the table, on either side of the bed and on the windowsill.

            My lady and her husband sit together on the bed. Her hand is gripping his tightly, the knuckles are turning white, but he does not seem to notice. They study each other's faces, as though unsure of the reality of their closeness.

            Soon realizing that a reply won't readily come, I curtsy and leave the room. As the door slicks shut, I begin to hear muted voices once again from inside the chamber.

            After tending the fires, I go to my own bed, lost in thought. What could have been the cause for Wallace's distress? The wind howls on the outside, relentless and merciless. I think of all of the nights Wallace has spent in that cruel wind of late, the times he has been chased by soldiers of Edward's army, barely escaping capture and death and sleep eludes me. My thoughts engulf me long into the night, and I sit awake, eyes watchful.

            I awaken in the morning without ever remembering having gone to sleep. As the house beings to stir, I notice a notable lack of the usual cheery bustle. An aura of tension and fear looms over the household.

            This is the reason for the memorable quality of Wallace's time with his wife. A hunted man is not easily harboured, and Longshank's men not easily fooled. His size above all things is a disadvantage. We are wary, eyes flitting to the door every minute, out of ever window. How tiresome it becomes! Wallace must be strong of heart to live always in such a manner as this, courageous and strong!

            I take the lady her breakfast. He is asleep, tucked away among the sheets and quilts. I had not realized how many lines creased his face from worry until sleep obliterated them. He looks like a boy in a giant's body. No one could guess by looking at him that he has taken back English-held castles, killed men by the hundreds, him and his growing band of patriots!

            I take away the goblets and plates of the night before. Everything is gone, even my lady's food. Nothing but love will convince her to break her fasting.

            In the kitchen, there is talk of how long Wallace will stay. People are saying that he burned a barn at Ayr, with five hundred English soldiers garrisoned inside. I don't believe it, no one is capable of such vengeance, such brutality! An exaggeration, to be sure. Even an outright lie. But if it were true, it would send the English knocking on our doors in an instant. We are further on our guard now.

            An order comes from upstairs, to make ready the horses for Wallace and his companions. Walking to the servants quarters, I pass the lady's chamber. There is muffled crying, a soothing voice.

            My old heart breaks to hear it, the utter loneliness and despair exuded from those tears. What would it feel like to love and be rent away from your love so often, knowing that each parting could be the last? To know that you may never know your child, that your child will never know his father, whom you loved so much?

            Being young and valiant in this time is a sure wish for death. At a point in Scottish history when it is unsafe for Scot women and children, the men must search deep within their souls. I am lucky I am so old, that I have felt and seen all that I have need to see, I have felt the spray of the salty wind from the ocean in my hair, and seen the great mountains in the North, daring us to climb to their peaks and attempt to conquer them. My life is spent, and was spent in good and peaceful times. My heart goes out to them, they that must choose one of two paths, cowardice and submission, or honour and death. I who have lived my whole life, and presume to know myself, could never make that decision. 

Watching him ride away like the mighty tide going out from the shore, I realized that in Wallace's mind there was never a second path.

A/N: So, what did you think? By the way, 'barns of Ayr' thing is a true story, and Robert the Bruce actually helped him with that. Cool, huh? So, review please!


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